


Slytherin Girl, Through and Through

by Luminous_Moon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Female Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:07:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29671860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luminous_Moon/pseuds/Luminous_Moon
Summary: Once upon a time there was a young girl; Clara Potter. She was very pretty, with long, wavy black hair and bright green eyes.She was pretty, but she was unhappy, for she lived in an orphanage, where she was lonely and unloved.But as soon as she began to realise that the world was not as lovely as she once thought, she made herself a promise – one day, she’ll change the world so much that her name will be written in the night sky.This is her story. The story of a girl who fought her way through life, who found love, who achieved victory. Who eventually wrote her name into the night sky with a touch of magic.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 3
Kudos: 29





	Slytherin Girl, Through and Through

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is a new story that will be replacing 'The Paths to Take'. This will be the first chapter of, hopefully, many to come. My updating schedule is still uncertain, so bear with me if I disappear for a while.
> 
> Enough talking! On with the show...er...story!

When Clara had first arrived at the orphanage, she had kicked herself for thinking that perhaps, the orphanage would be better than the Dursleys.

She was sorely disappointed.

She fought tooth and nail for the merest scrap of food, slept in gritty sheets, wore thin, threadbare dresses that smelt strongly of the last person who wore it.

So when her eleventh birthday came, she was a hard faced, cold hearted young girl who knew only of struggle. Her face had lost it’s childish sweetness, but it was full of character, and everyone who saw her stopped at her fierce beauty.

It was a lovely, sunny day, with a hint of breeze. Clara sighed, her bright green eyes shining as she concentrated hard and summoned pots of blue and white paint into existence. She had always been able to do extraordinary things like that – she couldn’t explain it, but she was glad all the same. It protected her from bullies and healed her injuries.

A paintbrush materialized. Clara dipped it into a jar of water, swiped it through the blue paint and began to dab. Painting was not like writing, which she enjoyed equally. But writing was for her rages, when she was unfairly treated by the matron, or when one of the children had insulted her. Painting was for peaceful, pretty days like this, where the sun sent dappled light into her small room, when the sky glowed bright blue and puffs of white cloud clustered together.

A picture formed under her brush strokes. Clara blew on it, infusing power into her breath, and the painting instantly dried. She conjured a frame and magically stuck it to the wall. And there it was, the beautiful blue sky surrounded by other pictures of thick white snow, smooth fields of green grass, bright flowers, the glittering water of rivers. But there was one picture that was more vivid, more detailed than the rest.

It was a picture of a woman and a man. The woman was petite, like Clara, with gorgeous red hair the colour of wine. Her eyes were the exact shape and colour as Clara’s – an intense green, almond shaped with long lashes. The man had messy black hair – the hair that Clara had inherited, though not as wild as his. He had hazel eyes, and a smile that was bursting with mischief.

It was Clara’s parents. Though she never knew her father’s name, Petunia had once spoken what was surely her mother’s name – Lily. Clara had painted the picture the first night in the orphanage. Pouring her tears, confusion, hatred and longing into the roughly made brush, the picture had formed like magic.

Clara sighed again. _Mother, Father, what would you do if you saw me now? Unwanted, unloved, yet filled with yearning for a real family…_

On her 11th birthday, Clara got up with the distinct feeling that something strange was going to happen. She ignored it, and went about her normal activities. She walked to school with the rest of the orphanage children, her plain grey skirt and pressed white blouse clean, with her brown satchel swinging from a thin, frayed strap placed on her shoulder.

She sat in the middle row in class, her green eyes shining as she scribbled down answers and aced a test.

She chewed her lunch tastelessly, the fluttering in her stomach growing stronger. She walked back to the orphanage with her fingers trembling and her hair wild with _magic._

Clara shakily took out her pen and writing book. Flipping to a blank page, she slowly uncapped the pen and her hand unsteady, she began to write a poem.

Falling

Darkness rises, to meet my eyes,

Flying without control, means I’m falling.

Deeper and deeper I go,

falling, falling, I’ve lost control.

Imaginary wind rushes in my ears

Dizzy, dizzy as darkness embraces me.

My feet stand on no firm ground

I’m falling, falling, and the world beneath me gives way.

I’m lost in a cloak of thick, black velvet

I thought I saw a glimpse of light,

But soon I’ve fallen past it.

A knock on the door made her swear and snatch up a tissue to dab at the ink blot she made on her page.

“Yes?” She called out crossly. When the door opened to reveal Marissa Livington, however, her face immediately set into stone – blank, indifferent. She twirled the pen, one thin eyebrow raised.

“Yes?” She repeated, drawling.

Marissa and Clara had always been enemies. Marissa was very pretty, with golden hair and turquoise eyes. She used to be the prettiest girl at the orphanage – before Clara arrived, with her mysterious allure.

“Matron wants you,” She grumbles. Clara thinned her lips.

“Tell her that I shall be down soon.” Marissa didn’t answer, instead opting to stalk out and slam the door behind her. Clara exhaled sharply and closed her writing book with a snap.

Writing could wait.

Dressed in a faded dress that had once been a rich, sumptuous purple, Clara braided her hair, her thin fingers coaxing the thick black hair out of knots and tangles. She tied it with a matching purple ribbon, and with an approving glance in the cracked mirror on her wall, she walked downstairs.

The sitting room was just a small, square shaped space, with a dusty, worn rug under a burgundy coloured couch with squashed cushions. A small, cluttered wooden coffee table held three silver candlesticks that had never been used.

The matron was standing, swathed in black, her pinched face angry, her lips pursed. It didn’t take Clara long to find the target of her displeasure – a tall man, with a sallow face and cold, onyx black eyes. He too was clad in black, but his clothes were peculiar – black robes that swept the floor. His hair was greasy and he bore a similarity to a bat.

“Hello.” Clara’s voice was flat. The man sneered.

“Miss Potter.”

“Potter, is it?” Clara frowned thoughtfully. A flame of hope flickered in her heart. Maybe this man knew her parents?

She turned to the matron, who was staring pointedly at the floor.

“Please leave us alone,” She said sweetly.

The matron’s lips almost disappeared, but she swept out. Clara rolled her eyes and turned back to the man.

“I never knew my surname, you see,” She sighed.

The man was obviously struggling to hold back shock.

“Did you not get your letter?” He asked. Clara tilted her head. Out of the corner of her vision, she saw a ruffled, brown owl soar towards the open window, something attached to its leg.

“The owl, I suppose?” She asked lazily. She held out her arm, allowing the owl to descend gracefully and attach itself to the offered limb.

The letter was made of a thicker, heavier material than paper. It was yellowish and much rougher. There was a seal of purple wax. Clara turned the envelope.

_Miss Clara L. Potter_

_Sitting Room_

_Maria Girl’s Orphanage_

Written in green ink, the address looked perfectly innocent, but Clara gaped at it, her mask momentarily discarded. She had never seen such a specific letter.

The man watched her silently as she opened the envelope and read the letter. Her fingers twitched slightly and her eyes darkened.

Finally, she folded the letter and tucked it into the pocket of her jeans.

“So, where are we going?” Her eyes were cold once more, and her face shuttered.

“Professor Snape,” He said unexpectedly. “You may address me as Professor Snape.”

“ _Sure,_ Professor Snape. Let’s go.”

Diagon Alley was bright, bustling and cheerful. After freeing herself from her ‘fans’ - Professor Snape had been _no_ help, electing to watch and smirk at her predicament – they proceeded to Gringotts, the wizarding bank.

There, Professor Snape extracted a tiny gold key from his long, black robes and gave it to a scowling goblin, who led them to a cart. Clara peered down the tunnel, her face unreadable.

“Hmph.”

She climbed in, smoothing down her skirt. Professor Snape did not get in, a look of distaste on his features.

“It’s okay, Professor,” Clara said sweetly. “I’ll navigate the rest of my school shopping on my own, I can manage.”

Hardly able to disguise his look of relief, Professor Snape merely nodded and strode away, his robes billowing.

“I really must learn what he does to make his robes puff like that,” Clara mused. The goblin made an impatient sound and Clara flicked her hand.

“Yes, let’s go down.”

The next few minutes were spent in a haze of whipping hair and delighted shrieks. The cart finally slowed down and Clara clambered out gracefully, her face flushed prettily and her green eyes alight.

“Brilliant,” She managed to say.

The goblin made no answer, but he inserted the key and the door swung open. Clara stepped inside of the cave-like room, her eyes closing briefly.

“Brilliant,” She repeated.

For she, orphaned Clara Potter, had always had an absolute _fortune_ left to her. Piles of glittering gold coins, stacks of silver and a smattering of bronze left her breathless.

“Excuse me,” She said politely to the goblin. “Is there a way that I have access to my money, but not have to sift through bags every time I buy something?”

The goblin narrowed his dark, beady eyes.

“Yes,” He said. “With these.”

He produced something very similar to a wallet – except that it was made of rough strands of gold that shimmered very slightly.

“We don’t have a name for it yet,” He smiled nastily. “But you can be our first tester.” Clara glared at him, but accepted it anyway.

“Thank you,” She spoke through gritted teeth.

She bent down and began to fill the wallet – thing with coins. To her surprise, the bag seemed to go one forever.

When she was satisfied, she zipped up the wallet and slipped it into her pocket.

“OK,” She said.

After one last wild ride up, Clara walked out of Gringotts, perfectly composed, her hair back in a neat braid, her eyes once again filled with wonder as she gazed at the colourful, lively streets of Diagon Alley.

She got herself a beautiful white snowy owl, which she named Hedwig. Then she was off to Madam Malkins, where she would get her robes.

She walked in. Some eyes turned her way, and she realized that she hadn’t yet asked Professor Snape why she was famous.

But Clara was clever, and she deduced that it had something to do with the thin, jagged scar that ran down the side of her face. She carefully covered it with a long piece of hair and assumed a confident stride.

There was a boy being fitted for robes too. He had white-blonde hair and sharp, grey eyes.

“Hullo,” He said. “Hogwarts too?”

“Correct.” The boy tilted his head, eyes narrowing.

“You’re pretty, you know. What’s your name?” Clara smiled. Was she finally going to have a friend?

“Clara. Clara Potter.” The boy’s face lit up.

“Oh, so _you’re_ the Girl-Who-Lived!”

“The what?”

The boy hopped off the stool as Madam Malkin finally finished the boy’s robes. He stood patiently as she began pinning up Clara’s ones.

“My name’s Draco, Draco Malfoy, by the way. D’you want to meet my mother and father?” He asked. “I can explain the Chosen One thing to you then.”

“The _what_?”

Clara immediately took a liking to Narcissa Malfoy. The woman was beautiful – beautiful but dangerous. She had long, blonde hair, grey eyes and high cheekbones – like Clara. She wore long, dark green robes and glittering rings on her pale hand. She kissed Clara on both cheeks in greeting.

Lucius Malfoy was a different matter. Proud and aristocratic, he regarded Clara silently. She beamed at him pleasantly, but he did not return the smile. He looked rather like Draco in the hair department.

They had ice cream at Fortescue’s. Clara, who had never had ice cream before, struggled to keep her composure as she tasted her first drop of mango sorbet. They ate in silence, but Clara finally felt calm. She felt, strangely, at home.

When Draco explained her fame, Clara stilled. She thought of her parents, and suddenly she saw a flash of green light and a long scream. She shuddered.

When she and the Malfoys went their separate ways, Narcissa hugged Clara and kissed her again, this time in her hair.

At home, indeed.

She rented a room at the Leaky Cauldron. It was comfortable and Clara loved it there. She could sleep for as long as she wanted to, then dawdle downstairs to get a bite to eat. And she got to explore Diagon Alley too.

The place was absolutely marvellous, with dozens of bookshops and stores. Clara was delighted when she found a bottle of ink that changed colour as you wrote. She had been busy devouring books about magic and wizarding politics and every single topic that she could get her hands on, but she spent her last days in Diagon Alley simply exploring the streets.

She wrote some letters to Draco, too, with the help of Hedwig. How she loved that owl!

September 1st arrived in a flash. Clara had gotten the hang of most spells in the first year curriculum, and she was infinitely proud of herself for that. She packed her trunk carefully, checking that there were no dog-ears in her books and she slipped her wand in her pocket. It was a comforting weight against her leg.

There was also the writing book and her paintings. There was no way she’d leave them behind. No. Bloody. Way. She had written a bit in her writing book the night before her departure.

_It’s funny, really. I used to be that freaky, silent girl who got good grades and could do strange things. Now, I’m the Girl-Who-Lived, the Chosen One and all that. It’s mind-bending!_

It was with a spring in her step that Clara hoisted her trunk and Hedwig’s cage, with the owl inside of it into the back of a taxi. She slipped into the back seat and stared out of the window at the blur of trees, people and the occasional dog. She had worn her best dress today – pale blue with the tiniest bit of lace. Never mind the fact that she would be changing on the train – first impressions were important, and Clara planned on making as many acquaintances as she could.

The red steam train, glossy and puffing out smoke, was the most glorious thing Clara could imagine. She breathed in deeply, vowing to etch the memory in her mind forever. She dropped her trunk and pulled out her wand.

 _“Wingardium Leviosa,”_ She chanted. The trunk glided into the air. Clara bent down and unlocked Hedwig’s cage, allowing the snowy owl to squawk and swoop into the air.

“Have a nice trip to Hogwarts!” She yelled after her pet, laughing as the owl vanished into the clear, blue sky.

Shaking her head, Clara picked up the empty cage and her wand aloft, she walked to the steps leading onto the train. She saw a family of redheads. A small girl waved at her. Clara, feeling her heart melt just a little, waved back.

No need for cold eyes or hard faces now. Clara was in _her_ world.


End file.
